Buy Her a Pretty Dress
by Tearoom Saloon
Summary: She never smiled. Day or night, rain or shine, pennies or penniless, she never smiled. Perhaps that is what drew him to her; the complete lack of joviality in her nature. Not that he was attracted to that sort of person. She was different, quiet, macabre. A Poe amidst a sea of Keats.


She never smiled.

Day or night, rain or shine, pennies or penniless, she never smiled.

Perhaps that is what drew him to her; the complete lack of joviality in her nature.

Not that he was attracted to _that_ sort of person.

She was different, quiet, macabre. A Poe amidst a sea of Keats.

She told fortunes in an alley off the main road, in a ramshackle old house that stood crookedly to one side. Inside, her psychic palace was a den of color and mystique. The walls were hung with embroidered Arabian tapestries, moth-eaten and tattered, but still perfect in terms of beauty and craftsmanship. Beads were strung across the small, cozy room in which she worked. It always had an aroma of hyacinths and lilies, fresh-cut grass and clean woven sheets; a warm spring day in the peak of childhood with grass stains and scraped knees. The windows hid behind the bright silks, basking the space in a rainbow of hues. _Better for divining,_ an old gypsy woman had told him one cold March day while he waited on her stoop.

He had never made it past the threshold.

He choked.

She would greet him with a transfixed gaze and he would mumble and disappear, or would have long departed the creaking wooden steps. He never had the courage to speak up, to ask one simple question, and when he did, well, then he changed his mind at the sound of her light footsteps.

* * *

It happened in December.

It was an exceedingly cold morning, the grass dusted in frost and children's breath dancing in pale clouds as they played in the streets. He wore a longer coat than yesterday's, thick black wool nipping at his ankles. The wind threatened to push his hat from his head and the cold reached bone deep in a matter of minutes. It was an exceedingly cold morning.

He ducked into a tea house and was immediately rushed by the scents of brews and leaves, the thick aromas of exotic perfumes and warm chocolates. It was warm and delicate inside, just the remedy for frozen bones.

She had thought so, too.

She stood barely inside the door, carefully wrapped in an ancient grey coat and a thin shawl, shivering in her worn, scuffed-up boots. Surely she must be freezing?

She glanced up warily at him, suspicious and calculating. He was a tall unknown male, and she, a smaller, worse-off female. It was natural for her to be frightened, he told himself. Natural.

In a burst of courage, he locked eyes with her. "You look cold, madam."

"Aye. I've seen better days." She pulled her bunches of clothing closer to herself. Her accent was foreign, but he found it charming.

"Perhaps have some tea, warm yourself a little?"

She glanced sideways at him and laughed. "I cannot afford a decent pair of shoes, what makes you think I can spare even a _farthing_ on a cup?"

"What if a gentleman offered to buy you a drink?"

"I would have to graciously decline. There is no way I could pay him back."

"And if he insisted it was a gift?"

"I would have to accept."

He smiled at her, which only received a glare. "What type of tea may I purchase you?"

"Ginger, not too sweet, but not bitter."

He smirked as he approached the teller, relaying the order with his suave vernacular. Across the wide room, she arched an eyebrow. It stayed as he strode back to her, an air of confidence now gracing his mannerisms. Something about feeling slightly in charge had heightened his ability to chat up women. Not that it was a bad thing.

"Where would you care to sit?"

"Sit?" She drew back. "I was under the impression you were only buying me tea."

"What sort of a gentleman would let a lady sit alone?"

"Wouldn't it be scandalous? I'm unwed—"

"As am I."

"Brilliant." She scowled. "We look of two different classes. Aren't you worried to be seen with me?"

"No, not particularly." He guided her to a secluded table by a roaring fire in the back of the room. It was warm here, no need for such coats.

She made a slight noise of discomfort as he removed his outerwear. "Is something the matter?"

"I thought you were middle class, not gentry," she said with a groan, eyeing the double-breasted coat and the gilded chain of his pocket watch.

"We are cousins, for the day—"

"No family would let their cousins get this raggedy."

"Fine. I am interviewing you for a job." He settled his hat on his knees. "Though I do not even know your name. Seems essential for an occupation."

"Aradia Megido," she said calmly. "And you are the youngest Captor boy, am I correct?"

"You are, Miss Megido."

"Miss Megido is my mother's address. I am simply Aradia."

"Then I shall be simply Sollux."

She rolled her eyes at him, not amused by the informalities. He was amused by her, however; the way she kept curling strands of escaping hair around her fingers, not bothering to repin the curls into her bun, the way she kept chewing at her bottom lip. She had a surprisingly fine set of manners for a lower-class gypsy girl. He hadn't been expecting her to be this charming (only he could consider her behavior charming), or as reserved.

They were quiet until a young girl—maybe fourteen years of age—brought Aradia her tea. She thanked her in a stunned manner and placed it on the round wooden table between them. She contemplated the cup, as if she had forgotten what to do with a cup of tea.

"Your grandfather works with bees, doesn't he?" she asked, catching Sollux off guard.

"He's a beekeeper, yes, but doesn't _work_ with them. He's a scientist."

"And your father?"

"A civil engineer. Not nearly as exciting."

She shrugged. "I'm from a family of gypsies; most of anything else is exciting."

"On the contrary, I find that more exciting than what _I_ have cut out for my future."

She leaned back in her plush red armchair. "And what would that be?"

"Engineering. Technology. Building. The same things as my father."

"Do you find it uninteresting because your father does it, or because you know you will end up doing it?"

He cocked his head, a frown marring his features. "I do not know. Maybe both, maybe neither? And you?"

He already knew the answer. "What more is there for a gypsy girl to do than to tell fortunes and perform magic?"

"Is it real magic?"

"Depends on who you ask."

"And whom would you ask?"

She shrugged. "Depends on the answer you want."

"And if I ask you?"

"You will not get an answer." She took a sip of the tea and decided it was too hot, replacing the cup in its ornamented saucer. "I gave up on girlish dreams in childhood."

"What sort of girlish dreams?"

She sighed exasperatedly. "Dreams of knights and castles and dragons."

"No princesses?"

She shook her head, black curls dancing in the fire's glow. "I always wanted to be a knight, that way I could adventure through the land and find treasures and save young princes. Very improper behavior of a young lady, my mother would say."

"I think it's perfectly fine. Some gentlemen do need saving."

"And some ladies are far more heroic than young men."

"I do not doubt it."

"Are you a heroic young man, Mister Captor? Heroism requires _courage_ and _bravery_."

"I—"

"And I'm not sure you have either, for I see you waiting outside my rooms every day—oh, you think I did not _notice_? Silly boy—and not once have you dared to venture inside."

"I have been nervous."

"Nervous? Do you mean you are _afraid_ of me?"

"N-no, just…nervous."

"I promise I do not bite. And…I think I would like to see you in at least once. You could learn something about yourself."

"I'll consider it."

* * *

They parted shortly after, with him needing to turn up for classes and her needing to return to her mother. She had only ventured out for bread, apparently, and got caught in a particularly nasty gust of wind and stepped inside to avoid the chill.

He returned home at six, and could not throw off his wet, sodden overcoat quickly enough. His mother was seated in the drawing room, an elegant suit stretched across her lap. It was his father's, with the gold embroidery on the lapels and threading on the buttons. Her fingers worked delicately by the lamplight, restitching a torn seam on the cuff.

"Mother?"

She looked up from her work with a smile. He was the last son in the house and she doted on him. "Yes, Sollux?"

"How did you meet dad?"

"How many times have I told you boys this story?"

"Too many, but it changes every time, and I want to know the _actual_ way. Please?"

She sighed and set her sewing aside on the sofa as he slid into the armchair across from her. "I was your age, maybe younger. He was two years older than me, and our fathers had known each other from the service. Your father comes from a wealthy family, as you know, and my father was not exactly the richest man in London. Still, one evening your paternal grandfather invited my father and his family to a garden party. It must have been late spring looming into summer because I remember it being too humid to bear. He spilled champagne all down my dress."

"And you _married_ him?"

"It was an accident." She shrugged, a nostalgic smile caught on her lips. "He bought me a prettier dress and asked me to dinner. He is a gentleman to heart, the same way I hope my boys have grown up to be."

"So you wouldn't be upset if I had…taken a fancy to a girl below me?"

"I see no issue as long as you buy her a pretty dress."

* * *

They ran into each other several times after that first meeting in the tea house. Once or twice he had asked her to dinner. Once or twice she had declined, but said yes on the third try. It had been casual, friendly. On their third outing, he dressed down. The fourth, she dressed up.

It was on the sixth that he decided to visit her.

The shop was just as colorful as always, like a crisp rainbow hidden in a grainy monochrome photograph. The whole space reminded him of childhood, though she said she had thrown it all away when she was younger. He could conclude that the girl still loved her fairytales and folklore, her childhood anthems and daisy chains. It was the only vibe he gleaned from the space.

She led him to the red-cloaked table in the far back, a grapefruit-sized orb in the center of the table, mounted in a wooden base carved like a coiling dragon. _It's for show_, she had explained on an earlier date. Most of it she considered hogwash, but not everything. The Tarot flipped between believable and old wives' tale, the palm reading could tell some things but not others, and the crystal ball was useless.

She built a fire in the back of the room and sat across from him in the nest of pillows, her back to the flames. Their glow cast an almost angelic light around her, he found. And it was oh so distracting.

"What am I doing today, then? I won't charge you because you have finally come around after a month of begging."

"You wouldn't charge me anyway," he said with a smirk.

She paused a moment. "…You're right. I would not."

"Then I request one thing. And—" He leaned forward and gestured for her ear. "I require you to smile."

She frowned. "Smile?"

"I do not think I've ever seen you smile as if you were enjoying yourself."

"Of course not, I need reason to be smile and be happy. What motivation do I have?"

"This." He let a small kiss fall onto her cheek, coloring them cardinal.

A grin spread across her face, ivory and ecstatic. "How improper, kissing ladies without permission. And I thought your mother had raised you to be a gentleman!"

"Pardon me, where _are_ my manners? _May_ I kiss you, Miss Aradia?"

"You may," she nodded, still smiling.

He took one of her cheeks in his hand and brought his lips to meet hers, causing a burst of heat in to spark in the small space.

Something told him it wasn't because of the fire.


End file.
